


Moving on Ice

by palavapeite



Series: Children of Lesser Gods [2]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Blood, Clint's pickup lines are still bad, F/M, Gen, Mission Fic, SHIELD, Violence, false identities, injuries, spies will be spies, to hell with orders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 08:21:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palavapeite/pseuds/palavapeite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint gets his James Bond on as he follows a Russian suspect from Lappeenranta to Vyborg.</p>
<p>Set roughly 8 months after “Stepping on Sand”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moving on Ice

“ _Thirteen stitches,_ ” Clint said pointedly amidst his chewing, holding out his arm, sleeve rolled up. “And they were poison darts, too. They didn't even want to let me out of medical at first...”

“I'm sure they were desperate to keep you around,” Bobbi replied dryly, shoving another forkful of peas into her mouth.

Clint, who was finishing off his bread, dipping it into leftover pasta sauce, shook his head and swallowed. His hand went down to his hip.

“I have another one down my side. Bruise the size of a tennis racket-”

“I know. It's from when I kicked your ass in training last week.”

Clint smirked and let go of the hem of his shirt.

“Charming blow, that was.”

“You're welcome.”

Finishing off the bread and putting his silverware onto the empty plate, Clint leaned back and contemplated Bobbi for a while. She wore her hair tied back ever since she'd started wearing that lab coat and working for research, and she had taken to a pair of weirdly shaped glasses. She also still hadn't agreed to go out with him.

“I've got this other cut down my thigh, though...” he began and Bobbi pretended to drop her face into her peas and mash in exasperation.

“Indeed, you should see the one that's the size and shape of one of Coulson's ledgers,” a new voice spoke and Clint grimaced when Phil Coulson put his lunch tray on the table and sat down to his right, opposite Bobbi, placing his obligatory stack of files and folders onto the last remaining free seat at the table.

“I haven't had one of those in over a month now,” Clint retorted and Coulson raised an eyebrow.

“Had to give you some time to heal, didn't I? You had a medical coming up,” he replied, grabbing his silverware and starting to eat. Bobbi had given up on her remaining peas and mash and shoved her plate a little away from herself, pulling her glass of water closer.

“Rare sight to have you in the cafeteria to begin with, Ph-... Agent-... uhm, Phil,” she stammered, hiding her face behind her glass with a sigh. “I'm gonna get over it eventually, I promise...”

“Take your time,” Phil grinned, cutting up his steak. Clint patted Bobbi's forearm with a compassionate expression, then turned towards Coulson.

“She's right, though,” he said, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. “You're not usually here.”

“I just got out of a mission briefing with Fury and was looking for you,” Coulson replied between bites. “I thought the best place to start was somewhere that had food.”

Bobbi snorfled into her water glass and grinned at Clint when she put it down.

“And weren't you right about that. Well, I'm not going to disturb you.” She threw a quick glance at her watch and rolled her eyes. “I gotta fly. Lužič will kill me if I'm not back on time...” Grimacing at Clint, she got up. “Not that he wants me there; to be honest, I think he'd rather be rid of me, but heaven forbid I be thirty seconds longer on lunch break than I should...”

“Better run, then,” Clint grinned, leaning back as Bobbi lifted her tray off the table.

“See you around. Don't hit him too hard,” she winked at Coulson. “Workplace violence are such boring forms to fill out.”

“Don't I know it,” Coulson deadpanned, shoving a bite of steak into his mouth and gesturing Bobbi goodbye with his fork. When she had left, he swallowed and frowned at Clint, who had dropped his head face down onto the tabletop.

“I think she fancies you,” Clint muttered, looking up and glaring at Coulson. “That's so not fair. Why do they always crush on _you_?”

“Perhaps because I have mastered the proper use of a napkin and don't speak with my mouth full?” Coulson offered and Clint huffed.

“And here I was, hoping I'd get a dinner date out of her tonight...”

“Not if you continue to let her see you eat lunch,” Phil teased and Clint gave him a kick under the table. Without batting an eyelid, Coulson stabbed a potato onto his fork and, with his other hand, grabbed the ledger and handed it to Clint.

“Want me to get a napkin first?” Clint asked innocently and Phil smirked.

“I'll take my chances.” His voice dropped. “Some background. Knowing you don't read reports.” He glanced at Clint. “Your face should not be this smug.”

“Of course I don't read reports,” Clint grinned. “Why would I? You brief me anyway.”

“I'll have you know, I've killed a man with a napkin before.”

“Don't think I don't believe you,” Clint replied, then nodded at the ledger. “So?”

Coulson took a moment to swallow.

“As you may or may not know, the first pieces of the Nothung files were decrypted last month.”

“What?” Clint blurted out, bewilderment on his face. “You're kidding me, right? We must've had them for, what, a year...?”

“Eight months last Wednesday,” Coulson corrected, taking a sip of water. “It's a really, really good encryption.”

“Uh-huh,” Clint muttered, stealing one of Coulson's potatoes. “So what about them?”

“We might've found at least one of Hydra's sources for the material they were shipping to their cosy desert getaway.” He forcefully stabbed his last potato onto his fork when Clint's fingers moved towards his plate again. “We've been following a lead from the Russian-Mongolian border west through Siberia, then down into Kazakhstan and then back up north into Russia. Our agent traced all transactions on this route back to various aliases of one Piotr Chekhov.”

“Chekhov?” Clint frowned, mischief in his eye. “I know that name. Isn't he a famous conductor or something?”

Phil heaved a sigh and closed his eyes for a moment, lips moving as if he was silently counting to ten.

“Sometimes it amazes me that you manage to let go of the right end of the bow, Barton.”

When Clint merely snickered and opened the ledger, Coulson took another sip of water and finished his steak. Clint was studying the first page, frown on his face.

“That the guy?” Clint asked, nodding at the photograph of a corpulent man in his sixties. Phil nodded.

“Chekhov. At least that's what he calls himself. Used to be a small fish in the seas of the Russian mafia, but it seems he's been rising to the top. One of our agents was tracking him until two weeks ago, but we have reason to assume that Chekhov got suspicious and tried to throw us off somehow. The mission had to be put on hold.”

“And we're supposed to pick up the thread?” Clint asked, half-heartedly leafing through the documents in the file. Coulson emptied his glass of water and leaned back.

“Yes. We've built up a fairly good network of informants who've been keeping an eye out for him and from what they've told us he's planning to put an end to his current tour from party to party and return somewhere. We're supposed to find out where that somewhere is and what exactly he's doing there.” 

“Sounds good so far,” Clint replied, flipping the folder shut again. “So what's the plan?”

“Plan is, you get yourself a warm jacket and ask the outfitters for a nice suit. You're flying out to Lappeenranta in three hours,” Coulson began and Clint raised an eyebrow.

“That doesn't sound very Russian.”

“Your observational skills bring tears of pride to my eyes,” Phil stated dryly. “We might make a spy of you yet.” He shook his head. “Lappeenranta is in Finland, close to the Russian border. There will be a dinner party at the fortress there that Chekhov plans to attend. Important people doing important business, showing off how important they are. We'll sneak you in as a bodyguard for a guy called Olev Tõnnisson.”

“That Estonian landowner,” Clint threw in, tapping his finger on the ledger with an informed expression, and Coulson nodded.

“He doesn't know a thing, so stay subtle. Your job is to keep an eye on Chekhov and plant a tracking device on him, or close to him. We think he'll use the vicinity to the border to make a fast return to Vyborg without attracting too much attention and then disappear from there. Our problem is that most of our contacts in Vyborg got compromised a couple of months ago and he might just slip through our fingers if we're not careful...”

***

Standing on the gallery between two glass cases with historic stuff in it, Clint looked down at the people moving around the big room of the rather understated fortress museum that served as venue. Making sure he kept half an eye on Tõnnisson for the sake of appearances, Clint's gaze was focused on Chekhov's broad figure that barrelled its way through the small crowd, sipping champagne and munching shrimps off cocktail sticks.

Eyeing the two slender, blond women in revealing evening dresses that were framing Chekhov's massive body to either side, Clint snorted quietly into his earpiece.

“Tell me again, Coulson, why we couldn't just have Nineteen and Ferrante in flimsy, low-cut dresses accompany me to this? I could have posed as a rich guy!”

“ _I'll remind you that I had to talk you through knotting your bow tie before you left the hotel, Barton,_ ” Coulson's amused voice replied and Clint quietly gasped in mock offence.

“I resent that remark. I could so totally pull off the wealthy snob image!” he muttered, eyes temporarily lapsing to appreciate the cleavage of Chekhov's arm candy. “I mean, I must've seen every single episode of 'Keeping up with the Ks' and 'Saturday Stark Fever' at your place...”

“ _We've also watched 'Supernanny' and that doesn't seem to have made any impact,_ ” Coulson chuckled and Clint struggled to keep his face straight and professional, glancing around to see if anybody was paying attention to him.

There were only four other bodyguards standing along the small gallery looking down at their charges, and none of them seemed to be too attentive. One looked bored to tears watching over a tipsy old lady tottering about between the museum exhibits, knocking her diamond rings into the glass while talking in a high voice about all the important people whom she'd once slept with. The second guard looked like he was about to fall asleep leaning against a pillar. Judging from the red blotches of embarrassment on the third bodyguard's face, the smug-looking fourth one was engaging him in smutty talk through their earpieces. All the security guards downstairs that Clint could see were busy gaping at Chekhov's companions who looked almost alien in the rather simplistic venue of the old fortress.

“ _Seeing anything interesting?_ ” Coulson asked and Clint sighed, turning his attention back to Chekhov.

“Not really. He's chatting with the museum director right now.” He paused, eyes on the shorter one of Chekhov's girls, who hadn't stopped smiling all evening. The other one's face was a mask Clint wasn't sure how to read, but... “The girls seem scared, Phil.”

“ _They have every reason to,_ ” Coulson answered calmly. “ _Focus._ ”

“Yeah, I know,” Clint muttered, eyes narrowing when Chekhov seemed to excuse himself, telling his escorts to stay behind. “He's going somewhere.”

“ _Follow him._ ”

“Got it,” Clint pressed out and left the gallery, taking care not to attract attention as he strolled down the narrow stairs, looking around for Chekhov. “He's leaving in direction of the toilets. Might just be taking a leak, after all...”

“ _Then I hope you need to pee, Barton, because you're going after him._ ” Coulson was typing something into his computer. “ _There's a storage room and an emergency exit at the end of the same corridor._ ”

“Well, if he needs to take a piss he seems to wanna take it outdoors,” Clint muttered when Chekhov walked on past the restrooms, surprisingly fast on his feet considering his body mass. Clint followed at a distance, hurrying to open the door to the men's room and stepping behind it for cover when Chekhov turned to look if he was being watched before he walked out through the emergency exit. “He's not very subtle, is he?” Clint breathed. “How far's the door to the storage room?”

“ _About seven metres. It has a small window._ ”

 

“He's waiting for someone,” Clint muttered as he perched on a metal shelf packed with furniture polish and various cleaning substances. Trying to keep his balance, he peeked out of the dusty window onto the badly lit, small terrace surrounded by leafless hedges and thorny bushes. He could see puffs of hot breath leaving Chekhov's mouth, his expression stern.

When Chekhov turned his head, Clint saw a black silhouette approaching through the snow, making its way straight through the bushes.

Greeting Chekhov, a man stepped onto the ice-covered stones next to him, hands buried in the pockets of his thick coat. The face below his woollen cap was horsey, eyes a piercing blue. Describing the man to Coulson, Clint added, “We've definitely seen prettier...”

The men outside were talking, mouths moving silently.

“ _How's your Russian coming along?_ ” Coulson asked nonchalantly and Clint flinched, having skipped most of his lessons.

“Chekhov's pulling something from his pocket,” he breathed into the comm, trying to get closer to the window and almost losing balance. “Looks like a silver cigarette box. Pretty old-fashioned...”

“ _Any chance you can get your hands on it?_ ” Coulson asked and Clint pursed his lips.

“Possibly, if I get to go after him before he gets out of the fortress. Chekhov's turning to get back inside...” Chekhov turned and disappeared from view and Clint could hear the snapping of the lock as the door fell shut. Heavy steps were audible, then faded away.

Outside, the horse-faced man had left as well, forcing his way back through the bushes, then crossing the snow at brisk pace, heading towards the water that surrounded three sides of the fortress.

His gun between his teeth, Clint levered the small window out of its hinges with the end of a broomstick, hoping he'd fit through the opening. Coulson would never let him live it down if he got stuck...

Swinging through the hole and landing on his feet, Clint gripped his gun tighter and took after the man. He bit his lip as the thorny bushes tore at the legs of his trousers and forced his eyes to adjust to the darkness. In the distance, the man turned around, starting to run when he saw he was being followed.

Finally free of the narrow strip of bushes, Clint set after him, hours of running and being teased by Phil finally paying off. Sliding down the steep slope to the water, he caught up when the other man busied himself with the untying of the boat that was waiting.

Dodging a right swing that looked like it would've hurt, Clint kicked the man's feet out under his body. Maria Hill's mocking voice echoed somewhere in the back of his head as he blocked, kicked and dodged blows, all the way taking care to keep up his guard on the side where Bobbi's bruise had finally begun to turn green and yellow.

“Got him,” he panted into his earpiece when he had knocked the man out – more or less by accident, but he wasn't complaining.

“ _Found the case?_ ” Coulson asked and Clint began to search jacket pockets, inside and out, fingers eventually closing around the cigarette case and pulling it out of a concealed space in the lining.

“Got it.” He put the case into the inside breast pocket of his evening jacket and stood up, straightening out his clothes, hoping he didn't look too ruffled. “What do I do with this guy, then?”

“ _I have your location. I'll tip off the police._ ”

Nodding as he stepped away from the unconscious man, Clint took a deep breath and turned to walk back up to the museum where the party was held, brushing out his suit as well as he could. Taking a slight detour via the parking lot to avoid the bushes, he checked whether all cars were still there, hoping Chekhov hadn't left in the meantime. He was lucky.

Five minutes later he left the men's room looking less like he'd just had a fist fight.

He had barely stepped out of the bathroom, when the next door to the ladies' room opened and someone stormed out of it, crashing into Clint before he realised what was happening. His arms full of one of Chekhov's surprised escorts, he steadied her when she threatened to fall off her heels.

“Извините! I am so sorry!” she babbled, her accent heavy and her former smile dropping to reveal a face of distress as she fussed over him. “I did not see...! I am so sorry!”

“It's okay,” he replied, putting on what he hoped was an Estonian accent since that was his cover story, “It's okay, nothing happened.”

Watching her face slide back to its pleasant, smiling state, he put his hand on her arm, looking concerned and hoping she didn't notice how he sneaked the small, black pearl that was the SHIELD tracking device into her silken evening handbag.

“What about you?” he asked. “I hope you are not hurt?”

She stepped back, looking embarrassed for a second, then smiling pleasantly. Impersonally.

“No. I am... I am fine. Thank you.”

Taking a step back and nodding politely, he gestured down the corridor and smiled.

“After you, miss.”

Keeping his distance as he followed her, he muttered into his earpiece.

“Planted. Do you have the signal?”

“ _Yes. Signal clear._ ”

“You should have seen me just now,” Clint said smugly. “I was one suave motherfucker, Coulson.”

“ _I have no doubt of it, having seen you being a suave motherfucker with Nineteen only yesterday..._ ”

“Maybe I should do more missions like this,” Clint mused, ignoring Coulson as he got back to his former spot on the gallery. “I could be like SHIELD's James Bond. 'Barton. Clint Barton. Now let me put my tracking device into your handbag, please, miss...' Too bad I don't like Martinis all that much...”

“ _Barton._ ”

“Yes, Moneypenny?”

“ _Shut up and follow Chekhov. They're leaving._ ”

***

“ _They're leaving the road,_ ” Coulson reported. “ _How was border control?_ ”

“Kalev Madson and his visa are very very velcome in Russia and my motorbike is very very nice,” Clint replied into the microphone of his helmet, speeding along the road towards Vyborg. “How far ahead?”

“ _Another two miles. There's a road exit. They seem to be moving along a country road heading for... I don't know. The forest, from the looks of it._ ”

“Probably not to look at the trees,” Clint replied. “Is it this next exit?”

“ _Yes. Now turn left and then take the second road to the right._ ”

“Could you maybe say that in a sexy sat nav voice?” Clint grinned, guiding his motorbike through the night. “Like I'm one of your French girls, Phil?”

There was a pause.

“ _Oh, Clint,_ ” Coulson replied, voice breathy, and Clint thought he was going to end up in the ditch laughing. “ _You're so full of_ shit, _Clint... I wish you would just take the next turn to the right as if it were a cheap Victorian rentboy and then keep going straight for miles and miles until the road's so dirty you have to get off your bike!_ ”

“I am the one who's full of shit?” Clint giggled and Coulson replied with a deep moan.

“ _Oh, yes... Hawkeye..._ ”

“I wish I could hit the record button on you,” Clint choked, trying to keep the bike steady. “I could blackmail you until the end of time... You'd never tell me to file a report, ever again...”

“ _Tough luck,_ ” Phil chuckled. “ _Nobody here to have heard it, either._ ”

“What time is it where you are, anyway?”

“ _Classified, Barton._ ”

“Humour me. I'll remind you that it's about two in the morning where I am right now and I am chasing a car through Russia...”

“ _We can swap. I don't think I've had a 2am yet since you left..._ ”

“Oh, the pains of working on a science fiction helicarrier...” Clint sighed, then narrowed his eyes at the road ahead. “Is it supposed to turn into a frozen dirt road?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Coulson replied. “ _And keep your eyes open. The car's stopped about three miles ahead of you, right by the road._ ”

“Copy.”

 

Having walked the last half mile into the forest, Clint looked around as he slowly stepped across a frozen puddle, careful not to slip. It was dark, but the sky wasn't clouded as it had been in Finland, so the moonlight reflected by the snow kept him from needing his torch.

Ahead, parked in the ditch next to the frozen road, he saw Chekhov's car, all the lights out, two of the four doors open.

Raising his gun, he slowly moved closer, listening for sounds.

“Holy sh-” he blurted out, pressing his hand to his mouth when he noticed the pool of black under the vehicle.

He pulled out his torch and pointed it at the pool, that turned crimson when the light met it.

“ _What do you see?_ ” Coulson's calm voice spoke in his ear and Clint quietly cleared his throat.

“A massacre, from the looks of it,” he replied, pointing the torch at his surroundings and turning to all sides. There was nothing but trees.

He stepped closer to the car, gun raised, and looked in through the open back door.

“Chekhov's dead,” he said, wrinkling his nose at the fat, bloody corpse, its bulgy eyes gaping empty. “Shot at short range.” Looking further into the car he saw the blood-covered body of one of his girls. “So's one of his companions. The other girl and the driver seem to have gone...” He looked into the passenger seat. “Bodyguard shot to pieces.”

He pointed the torch at the ground and crouched down when he saw a familiar handbag lying on the frozen earth. The black pearl was still inside. He ran his thumb across the soft silk material and sighed.

“ _Any tracks on the ground?_ ”

“Yes,” Clint replied, his torch on footprints of high-heeled shoes that led away from the car into the forest, apparently in great hurry; there were signs that she'd stumbled. Clint followed. Another pair of footprints joined the track a couple of metres into the trees, flat and larger than the first. As the forest grew thicker and no snow covered the ground any more, the tracks grew fainter, harder to read, and disappeared completely when they reached a frozen body of water.

Clint let his torch sink and sighed.

“That's the end,” he said, wiping his forehead, scanning the lake ahead with the beam of his torch, finding no sign of which direction they had proceeded. “I guess she ran for it. To be honest, it's amazing how far she got on those heels...”

Coulson sounded tired. He hated dead ends as much as Clint.

“ _No signs of anyone?_ ”

“No.”

“ _Get back to the bike and return to Finland, then. I'll have a team sent to the car._ ”

 

Clint was almost at the end of the forest when he suddenly heard movements in the branches to his left. Turning towards it, gun and torch pointed, he could just about make out someone disappearing, hurrying through the trees.

He set after the person, gun in hand, panting an update to Coulson.

“Stop!” he yelled, not really expecting it to work. “Стой!”

In the moonlight that fell through the treetops, Clint spotted long blond hair as the girl stumbled on ahead of him. She still wore her high heels, one of them broken, it seemed, and it didn't take long for Clint to catch up with her.

“Нет! Помогите!” she screamed out in terror when he reached her. He grabbed her arm to slow her down and her fingernails scratched across his face before he saw it coming. “Помогите!”

He let go in surprise.

“It's okay!” he yelled, putting his gun away and raising his arms to show he didn't mean her harm. “It's okay! I'm not going to hurt you!”

She didn't really seem to hear him.

“ _Try Успокоиься,_ ” Coulson said and Clint, barely hearing him over the woman's panicked screeching and slapping, repeated it as well as he could.

“What did I just say?” He asked, trying to keep her from taking his eyes out with her fingernails.

“' _Calm down_ ',” Coulson replied.

“Calm down!” Clint yelled, catching both her wrists in his hands and forcing her arms down. “It's okay! I'm a friend! Друг, okay? Friend! Друг! I want to help you!”

She didn't stop struggling, tears streaming down her face, blood all over her body where the branches of trees and bushes had scratched her skin. Her dress was torn and dirty and she was shaking, wailing and crying, trying to tear her hands free, panicked defeat on her face. Clint wasn't sure she even heard him, or understood what he said.

Sighing, he let go of her arms and took two steps back. He'd half expected her to run, but she fell to her knees, face buried in her hands. He crouched down a little.

“It's okay. Okay, you understand?” He shrugged a little helplessly and tried his best to smile encouragingly when she looked up at him, still crying.

“You're all right,” he continued, keeping his hands away from his body, one hand empty, the other one holding only the torch. “I don't want to hurt you. Друг. See?”

She brushed a strand of hair out of her face and looked at him.

He gave her a little wave.

“Hi. I'm C-, uh...” Clint paused and Coulson cleared his throat over the comm. “Kalev.”

He pointed the torch at his face for a moment.

“I'm Kalev. I'm from Estonia. What's your name?”

She hesitated, then sniffed and wiped the tears off her cheeks with one hand, eyeing his hands.

“Ivanna,” she replied, glancing at him suspiciously as he took another step back, holding a hand out to her.

“Ivanna. I want to help you,” Clint said gently. “Let me help you, please?” He motioned towards the edge of the forest and got up. “I have a motorbike. We can get away from here. To Vyborg. Or somewhere else. You say. Okay?”

“You police?” she asked, scrambling to her feet, ignoring his hand.

“I'm a friend,” Clint replied. “I'm with the police. I will help you, Ivanna. I'm a friend.”

She refused to take his hand, but followed him to the motorbike, where he took the suit he'd worn to the party out from under the seat, as well as his shoes, and gave her all of it, along with his helmet.

“ _Nice work. But you should return to Finland,_ ” Coulson spoke quietly and Clint looked at Ivanna, who got dressed a couple of metres away.

“I don't think she has papers,” he muttered. “I don't want to ask her. We'll go to Vyborg. It'll be fine.”

***

The drive to Vyborg seemed to have calmed her down, Clint mused, when they ascended the steps of an averagely expensive, but inconspicuous hotel, looking for their room. She hadn't had any money on her and his emergency budget was... well, an emergency budget, so he'd pretty much blown it all on this hotel, but he'd figure something out.

There were two beds that looked clean enough and a bathroom into which Ivanna disappeared as soon as they'd entered the room. Clint sat down on one of the beds and took his earpiece out of his pocket.

“Phil?” he spoke quietly.

“ _I'm here._ ”

“I had to go offline for the ride. I gave her the helmet.”

“ _I figured. Where are you? I get your signal from the outskirts of Vyborg._ ”

“Hotel. Took up all my money, but it was the best I could find. She's in the bathroom right now.” Looking at the closed door and hearing the water running inside, he turned his attention back to Coulson.

“ _What's your next move, then?_ ”

Clint sighed.

“Are you mad at me?”

There was a pause.

“ _No, I'm not mad at you._ ” Phil sounded tired. “ _You've done the logical thing. I just want to know what to tell Fury when he comes stalking past my office again._ ”

Clint looked around the room, out of the window, biting his lip.

“I don't know. I'll see what I can get out of her. She must know something. Once she's had some sleep, I'll get her something to eat and see whether she'll talk to me... What do you think?”

“ _I think it sounds worth trying,_ ” Phil replied. “ _But don't push her too hard._ ”

“I'll do my best. Hey, Phil,” Clint added, rubbing his face tiredly.

“ _Hm?_ ”

“This is a job, okay? I swear, I'm not going James Bond on you. Or on Fury.”

A soft chuckle was audible.

“ _Noted, Barton. I expect a full report._ ”

“Go to sleep,” Clint replied, smiling. “Maybe you'll get one in your dreams...”

“ _I must never stop hoping._ ”

The connection was cut and Clint tucked his in-ear away under his pillow and took off his jacket and biking boots.

The clicking of the bathroom lock attracted his attention and he looked at Ivanna when she re-emerged, wearing Clint's evening jacket like a dressing gown. She'd brushed her hair and washed the blood and dirt off her body and looked slightly less haunted than before. A certain degree of calm, or perhaps numbness, seemed to have taken over.

“I have my shirt from the party, you can wear it,” Clint offered, pulling it from his bag, and she nodded, taking it with a forced smile. “I'll be in the bathroom for a minute.”

_Just a minute_ because he wasn't all too sure she wasn't going to snoop in his things – or worse, change her mind and disappear. He washed his face and ran a wet hand through his hair, took off his biking pants and shook out his T-shirt before putting it back on.

She was sitting on her bed when he came back, hugging her knees and following him with her eyes as he moved to his bed. She was clutching a small bottle of vodka in one of her hands.

“Where did you get that?” Clint asked and she nodded towards her bedside table.

“This is good hotel,” she replied and Clint went to check his own nightstand, taking out a bottle just like the one she was holding. Man, he loved Russia.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, thinking he still had to have an energy bar or two somewhere in his emergency kit, as well as a bottle of actual water.

“Thank you,” she muttered, accepting the energy bar and washing it down with a sip of vodka. “You helped me.” She looked at him. “Thank you.”

“Of course I helped you,” he replied, smiling a little. “It will be okay. You can sleep now. Tomorrow is a new day.”

She nodded and kicked the covers of her bed back, propping up her pillow and leaning back against it while finishing the bar and taking another sip of vodka. When Clint moved to switch off his bedside lamp, she suddenly spoke.

“He was not good man,” she said quietly, scrunching up the plastic wrapping between her fingers. A defiant look was on her face. “He was not kind.” He voice quivered as she took another sip.

“It's over now,” Clint replied neutrally, then added. “Do you have somewhere to go? Family?”

“I don't know,” she muttered. “I don't see my parents for a long time. They are in Syktyvkar. More in the East.”

“And you are from there, too?” he asked and she seemed hesitant.

“Not anymore. I... I went to Moscow. To dance ballet.” She shrugged. “I was not good enough.”

“I'm sure you were very good.”

She smiled a little ruefully, then shrugged again. Her bottle was half empty now. A sigh escaped her throat.

“Maybe. I don't know.” She looked at him. “You are not from Estonia. You are American, yes?”

Clint flinched, then grimaced and nodded.

“Yes. I'm sorry, it's hard to explain...”

“It's okay,” she replied, making a sweeping gesture, bottle still in hand. “I am not asking. I understand.”

“Thank you.”

Figuring she might be in a talking mood, or at least a drinking mood, Clint sat up in his bed, leaning back against the headboard, and opened his own bottle of vodka.

“I want to go to America. One day,” she said, smiling to herself. “And go surfing. And lie in the sun and go to the beach.”

“Maybe you will?” he asked and her smile grew a bit wider.

“Maybe I will. Now I can. Maybe.” She stretched out her legs, her skin glowing in the light of the bedside table. “If I get papers, then I can. And money.” Another rueful smile and she looked at him, mixed emotions on her face. “He made promise, you know. He said he can get papers. It can be hard to get papers here. I am not rich girl.”

Clint didn't know what to say. Taking another sip of vodka and feeling it burn down his throat, he eventually nodded, smiling at her.

“I know. It's okay. I understand.”

“No, no, you don't understand!” she snapped stubbornly, looking a little upset and jumped off the bed, agitatedly walking around the room, washing down her vodka like orange juice. She glared at Clint for a moment, then walked up and sat on his bed next to him, her eyes boring into his. Her voice was a little angry. “You American. You don't know. You don't know a thing. How can you understand?”

Clint swallowed.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you.”

Her face softened a little and she grabbed his vodka, taking a swig. She'd emptied her own, he noticed.

They were quiet for a minute.

“Tell me about America,” she eventually muttered. “You know California? Tell me about California.”

“Uhm,” Clint stuttered, reclaiming his bottle. “I don't know. I'm not from California, I've never lived there or anything...” When it didn't seem to satisfy her, he sighed. “Well, a lot of the movie stars live there. Hollywood studios and Sunset Boulevard. San Francisco and Los Angeles... a lot of beaches. You can go surfing there.”

She chuckled lowly and took the bottle from his hand again.

“You know nothing about California,” she stated dryly when she'd taken another sip and he sighed in defeat.

“Not really, no. Geography was never my best subject.”

“It's okay,” she replied, shifting to lean against the headboard next to him, their shoulders touching. “Tell me something else.” She rested her head on his shoulder. “About America.”

Fighting against the numbing buzz the vodka had created in his tired brain, Clint began to tell her random things he'd seen as a kid travelling with the circus. Not that he'd seen much outside the actual circus, but he embellished his stories with things Barney had told him or stuff that he'd heard from other people. He didn't mention the orphanage before, or anything after he'd left left the circus. He knew SHIELD – or rather, Phil – would have his head if he did.

Ivanna's head had become heavier, her breathing deeper, but her fingers still moved idly across the sheets between them, occasionally brushing his thigh. Eventually, even those movements stopped. Clint fell silent and turned his head to look at her face to see if she was asleep. Her eyes were closed and a soft smile was on her lips.

When Clint tried to tug the sheets over her bare legs, she suddenly spoke.

“I am not asleep.”

A second later she was straddling his lap, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. She seemed to ponder his face, half lost in thought.

She was beautiful, Clint thought, soft features and long lashes.

“You,” she muttered. “I like you, American.”

He looked into her green eyes for a moment, then his gaze wandered down to the small scratch across the corner of her full lips. He could feel her breath on his face as she leaned in and he closed the remaining distance between them.

***

Sitting on the closed toilet seat, wearing his biking pants and t-shirt, Clint ran a hand through his hair, the unforgiving bathroom light making every glance towards the mirror a minor punishment. His brain recoiled with the faint traces of a hangover and he'd not even had that much to drink.

Looking at the silver cigarette case in his hand, he wished he had his earpiece so he could talk to Coulson. Coulson, who would give him hell, of course, but who might also be able to offer some constructive input.

Unfortunately, Clint distinctly remembered shoving his earpiece into the small gap between his bed and the wall – in a moment in which Coulson's contribution had really been the _last thing_ Clint would've wanted – and since Ivanna was still asleep he didn't really feel like looking for it. He would have to do without Phil's help for the time being.

The cigarette case came open without problems. Clint wasn't sure what he'd expected to find, but when there was nothing inside but a piece of paper, he felt a little disappointed. There were numbers written on it, three sets of coordinates.

Frowning, Clint turned the paper over, but when there was nothing else, he focused on the coordinates, memorising them to his best ability.

A hollow thud inside the room made him look up. Pocketing the scrap of paper and the cigarette box, he carefully opened the bathroom door.

Ivanna lay motionless on the floor between their two beds, Clint's shirt, which she had put back on before falling asleep, twisted around her slender frame. The contents of Clint's bag lay scattered across the carpet. The cold winter air came in through the open window.

“Ivanna?” Clint blurted out, looking around the room for signs that intruders might still be around before hurrying to her side, brushing her hair out of her face. “Ivanna!” He shook her by the shoulders, lowering his face to hers to check if she was still breathing.

He never saw the blow coming.

Gasping, one hand on the back of his head, Clint rolled away from Ivanna, trying to block her leg when it aimed for his head again. He grabbed her ankle and she pulled away, jumping to her feet with surprising agility.

Clint felt himself grabbed by the collar and yanked headfirst into the wooden bed frame, only just so managing to buffer the impact with his arm. Without thinking, he jerked his leg up, hoping to hit her somewhere that hurt.

Dodging his blow she jumped back onto her bed. When she approached again, his head was clear enough to move in time and her fist hit solid wood.

It _splintered_.

Clint scrambled to his feet, bracing himself against her next attack, quickly finding that she was really far better at this than he was and he could only hope it wasn't going to be the end of him. He dodged and averted her next couple of kicks well enough, but when he found himself with her crotch in his face while her thighs squeezed his breath out of him, he felt the ground slip from under his feet.

His forehead slamming against the bedpost, Clint's world went white for a second and he made a pathetic noise as he gasped for breath. Another blow to the head and he was lying face down on the floor, trying to get his arms and legs to work.

Her fingers gripped a handful of his hair and pulled his head back as she stood above him, her other hand searching the pockets of his trousers. She pulled the cigarette case and the slip of paper out and leaned down.

Her voice was smooth in his ear.

“Goodbye, Agent Barton.”

She let go of his hair and his head fell back to the floor with a thud. He could hear her get dressed and he tried his best to move. His hands dug clumsily into the cheap carpet floor and his knees skidded up and down in search for proper grip.

Hearing her move towards the window, Clint managed to push himself up on all fours, turning to stop her, wondering where his gun had disappeared off to.

There was a clicking sound and a sharp sting in his side and from the corner of his eye he saw a blurry shadow leave through the window. His hand grabbed at the little dart that stuck out below his ribs and he barely had enough strength to pull it out before his world went black.

***

His earpiece, when he finally found it, was blinking and beeping hysterically. Clint didn't know how long he'd been out of it, but Coulson must've expected him to report by now.

Scrambling out from under his bed, the little earplug clasped in his hand, Clint slumped back against the nightstand and rubbed his face. He'd emptied his water bottles to chase the fog from his head, but he felt like he'd been through a grinder. His ribs felt sore and his head was one big throbbing bruise.

He put the comm into his ear and switched it on.

“I fucked up,” he muttered, closing his eyes and resting his head back. “I'm sorry, Phil.”

“ _Barton,_ ” Coulson replied immediately, sounding alarmed. “ _Talk to me. What happened? Are you okay?_ ”

“Still at the hotel,” Clint groaned. “There was... an unexpected turn of events.”

“ _Are you hurt?_ ”

Clint took a deep breath and furrowed his brow, trying to figure out what to answer.

“ _Clint. Are you hurt?_ ” Coulson repeated and Clint cleared his throat.

“Aching,” he replied. “Head hurts. Nothing broken, I think. I hope. Not bleeding.”

“ _What happened?_ ” Phil's voice was calm and steady, as always, but his tone was different. Slightly worried. Clint smiled a little.

“Turns out I am really quite a shit James Bond, Phil,” he breathed, groaning as he forced himself to sit up. “She wiped the fucking floor with my face... literally.”

“ _Who? Ivanna?_ ”

“Yeah, you see,” Clint began, coughing and laughing humourlessly as he looked at the blond wig she'd left behind beneath the window. “Turns out Ivanna wasn't really... Ivanna.” He lifted the small dart to his face with two fingers, looking at the ingenious design and the fragile engravings.

There were some Russian words Clint had picked up outside Russian language lessons. Because sometimes Clint Barton did read reports.

“ _What do you mean? Clint? Who was she?_ ” Phil asked and Clint put down the dart.

“Чёрная вдова,” he spoke, half in thought.

“ _Are you serious?_ ” Coulson paused. “ _How do you know?_ ”

“She knocked me out with one of her darts,” Clint replied. “I have no idea how she even got them, she looked completely unarmed when I found her and...” He groaned, seriously wondering how he even managed to let go of the right end of the bow. “I read Hill's report from when she had a run in with her two months ago. There was a sketch and a description of her darts.”

Coulson was quiet for a moment.

“She took the cigarette case, Phil,” Clint added in defeat.

“ _Do you know what was in it?_ ”

“Piece of paper with coordinates...” Clint squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember and blurting out a couple of numbers, hoping he remembered them halfway right.

“ _Checking,_ ” Phil replied, then added quickly, “ _The last one's in the middle of the Indian ocean. We'll check it to make sure, but we might have a wrong number there somewhere... Second one's in Siberia, a place not far from where we suspected Hydra might be having a base, so that's promising... First one's about twenty-five miles Southeast of Vyborg..._ ”

Clint sighed, the wish to just close his eyes and go back to sleep becoming momentarily overwhelming.

“ _You have to get out of that hotel, Barton,_ ” Coulson spoke sharply, back to his business voice that tore Clint out of his stupor for a moment. The clicking of Coulson's keyboard was audible. “ _We have a contact at Ulica Podgornaya. Old Swedish woman, she'll patch you up and give you money. I'll send a team over straight away._ ”

“Ulica Pogo...,” Clint tried to repeat. “How do I get there?”

“ _Get ready to leave, I'll talk you there. Just dropping the woman a message that you're coming._ ”

Clint scrambled to his feet and threw everything he could find into his bag, surprised at finding his gun still there, hidden under his biking jacket.

Five minutes later he stumbled onto the street, leaving his bike behind as he blindly followed Coulson's directions towards Ulica Podgornaya.

***

“You think she's in there?”

“ _Immaterial, Barton,_ ” Coulson replied and Clint straightened up a little to have a better view of the complex before him. He was perching on the branch of a leafless tree in a forest roughly twenty-five miles outside Vyborg. Ahead, in a large pit, well hidden by the trees, was one of the factories implied in the Nothung files, correlating with the coordinates written on Chekhov's slip of paper.

“My orders-” Clint began, but Coulson cut him off.

“ _Your orders are to neutralise the Black Widow if she interferes with the mission,_ ” he corrected. “ _Not to hunt her down. You are not there to get revenge, Clint._ ”

Clint pressed his lips together. Coulson cleared his throat.

“ _Okay, listen up, everyone. The newest decodings of Nothung imply that this factory supplies primarily the chemicals Hydra use for their customised bombs,_ ” he spoke over the Mission Control channel. “ _Your job is to go in, verify that assumption, find out who's in charge and place a number of explosives in strategically advantageous places. Then you get a nice distance between yourselves and this factory so we can blow this thing up. Are we all clear on that?_ ”

“ _Yes, sir,_ ” Ferrante's familiar voice confirmed over the comm.

“ _Clemente?_ ”

“ _Copy, sir._ ”

“ _Lun?_ ”

“ _Understood, sir._ ”

“ _Emmerson?_ ”

“ _Clear, sir._ ”

“ _Hawkeye?_ ” Coulson asked sharply and Clint jumped off the branch, landing softly on his feet.

“Yes, sir,” he replied, looking along the edge of the pit, where the four main teams waited for the signal to move. He himself was really only there to keep trouble away from them on their way out.

That was what he had volunteered to do, at least.

“ _Okay, here we go. Move._ ”

Clint moved. Finally.

He'd waited for a whole week to move, trapped with an old Swedish lady doctor who'd fed him cake and patched up his cuts and bruises and kept an eye on his concussion, while Coulson had flown in four teams from all over Europe to investigate the situation.

They had found Chekhov's car, a burned out wreck in a ditch in the forest. They had also found the driver further into the woods, his spine broken in three places and a bullet in his head.

Chekhov's known associates in Vyborg and Moscow had been reported dead two days later. Officially it had been a feud within the ranks of the Russian mafia.

The horse-faced man Clint had overpowered in Lappeenranta had been found dead in the cell where the police held him in custody. Nobody quite knew how he'd died, but he had been identified as an undercover agent of MI6. Chekhov, it seemed, had wanted _out_. 

Coulson, still on the helicarrier, had then arranged for their teams to explore the forests outside Vyborg for anything suspicious. They had found the factory complex and observed it long enough to get a picture of what was going on. Eventually, Coulson had received official approval to blow the place up.

All the while Clint had eaten cake and _rested up_.

His arrow hit the underside of the outer wall's roof and a heartbeat later he ran across the tiles, heading towards the watchtower at the corner of the square complex. Halfway up to the top he stopped at the observation point, looking around for signs of the teams.

Enclosed by the wall was a square with a number of different buildings of varying height and purpose, some of them connected by pipes and bridges.

The really big shit, however, happened underground, Clint knew. He'd seen the plans.

“ _Ferrante and Lun are in. Clemente is taking a different route than planned_.” Coulson was using his no-bullshit-Barton mission voice. “ _Watch the North wall._ ”

“Movement on the square,” Clint replied, drawing and aiming at the small group of thugs that moved quickly towards the corner where Emmerson's people were supposed to go in. “How's Emmerson doing?”

“ _We're going in via the roof,_ ” Emmerson said. “ _Avoiding detection._ ”

“Yeah, or so you think,” Clint replied, releasing his arrow.

Pieces of thugs went flying through the air as the ground beneath them blew up. Clint drew again and took down two guards that came running from one of the buildings.

“Duck,” he ordered, hoping Emmerson took the hint. A quick glance in the direction of the team told him that the boy might've been new to the job, but at least he wasn't stupid. Or maybe Coulson was working him with his you-stupid-fuck voice on a private channel.

Four shots later half the square was in flames. Surveying the chaos below, Clint's mouth twisted into a smile when he finally spotted what he'd been looking for.

The Widow had come out to play.

He drew again and followed her movements across one of the bridges as she went back inside.

“Oh no, you don't,” he muttered. And released.

His arrow pierced the lock of the door, missing her outstretched hand by less than an inch, and she whirled around, red hair flying, spotting him immediately. He jumped down from his position and in the corner of his eye saw her swing off the bridge and crash through a lower window into one of the buildings. He set after her, sprinting and jumping from roof to roof towards where she'd been.

“ _Barton, what the fuck do you think you're doing?_ ”

“What I came here for, and you know it,” Clint replied as he threw himself off the bridge and followed the Black Widow through the broken window.

He had his arrow nocked when he landed at the top of a staircase and her poison dart missed his face by a breath. The next one was blocked by Clint's arrow sticking out of the Widow’s wristband.

Breaking the arrow and almost taking Clint's eye out as she threw it back at him, she flung herself over the railing, falling down the shaft between the stairs and disappearing before he could draw again. He cursed under his breath and jumped after her.

Over his earpiece he heard how the four teams were making progress, encountering only the occasional difficulty. He received reports of people leaving and abandoning the complex and he had to remind himself that it wasn't Hydra nutters with a _Cause_ running the factory, it was the mafia. They were not above saving their asses.

Deciding that the teams would be fine without him, Clint switched his earpiece to standby, blocking out the op’s main comm channel. He knew that Coulson was more than able to hack his way through to him in case of an actual emergency, but Clint hoped that he had also taken the hint and would keep from interfering unless he really needed to. Clint had something to finish, actual orders be damned.

At the foot of the staircase he walked down a short corridor before reaching a narrow metal bridge that led along the walls of a laboratory room below like a gallery. Bow drawn, he stepped closer.

The Black Widow swung down from above, slammed into his bow and sent his arrow flying sideways. Clint made a grab for her leg, but she had already jumped, landing between the lab tables below, gun drawn and bullets missing Clint's head only because he'd already moved, bow slung over his shoulder. Three steps onto the bridge he jumped himself, his own gun drawn and pointed.

The glass bottle on the table right behind where she'd stood went up in flames as its contents caught fire.

Clint's next shot brought down the gallery on one side, effectively blocking the door behind her.

She was fast. He could feel how her next bullet grazed across his thigh and left a scratch mark on his kevlar suit. He set the table behind which she was taking cover afire with two quick shots.

The exploding cocktail she threw his way came unexpectedly and Clint jerked his arm up to protect his face, firing blindly into her direction as he fell backwards. Scrambling up, he only just saw her slip away under the collapsed piece of gallery. He reloaded his gun and hurried after her.

 

Clint was acutely aware that she was leading him on, hell only knew where she was leading him to. He'd lost sense of direction, had lost track and count of the rooms they moved in and out of and left behind shot and smashed. He didn’t have time to acknowledge just how sticky an end he was likely to meet if he kept following her blindly. All he cared about was her next move, all he could think about was to be faster this next time. Dodge, strike, block.

Then, eventually, came the moment when he knew he had her.

He could hear his heart beat as he raised his bow, arrow pointing at her heart as she lunged at him from above.

He barely saw the circular room around them, lined with machines, strange vessels, pipes, screens and blinking lights and a ceiling so high, it might not have been there at all.

All he could see was her face, her piercing, green eyes.

Her chest heaving and the tip of his arrow pointing directly at it.

Clint felt the bowstring move across the fingertips of his left hand as he let go.

The Widow snarled and Clint hit the ground hard, his shoulder screaming out in pain as a flash of blond hair swept past his face. When he felt the sudden, unexpected weight that had hit him roll off him Clint jumped to his feet, taking a swing at the figure that had pounced on him and thrown him off balance. 

His head reeled for a moment and he hoped the moment he needed to gather his wits wasn’t going to kill him. 

It was two against one now.

He saw the Black Widow in the corner of his eye, one hand at her side where his arrow had torn a considerable cut into her suit and flesh. It should have been a shot to the heart.

He drew his gun and aimed it at the blond woman, who seemed to have hit her head tackling him to the ground and who was moving dazedly towards one of the machines. At least she wasn’t going to be too much trouble at this rate. 

When he recognised her face, his eyes widened in surprise.

“Seeing ghosts, Agent Barton?” she asked and for a moment a memory flashed across Clint's inner eye, of the same woman moving gracefully at Chekhov's side, of her blood-covered body lying motionlessly in the car next to the old, fat man's.

Suddenly he imagined her opening her eyes, crawling out of the car and setting it on fire as she walked away from it.

Her hand moved to the gun in her belt and Clint pulled the trigger.

The woman didn't scream as the impact at her shoulder threw her back and she steadied herself against one of the computers by the wall, a mad cackle bursting from her throat.

Taking aim again, Clint saw the Black Widow approach him from the side. He turned just in time to block her kick and knock the handle of the gun against her temple, shoving her away. She staggered backwards.

Clint fired at the blond woman again, but this time she dodged the shot entirely, moving towards the door and fumbling for something at her belt. The Black Widow called out to her in Russian, and Clint braced himself for whatever was to come. The blond woman halted and raised a hand to her ear. 

Clint’s attention was back on the Black Widow, who had moved on him with what looked like new-found vigour, tearing his head back by his hair and punching the breath out of his lungs. It took all of his strength to snap his arm up and knock his elbow into her jaw. 

When Clint fired another shot towards the door, struggling with the Widow’s weight dragging him back, the blond woman smiled at him sweetly as the door opened with a hiss behind her. She raised her gun.

“Goodbye, Agent Barton.”

Her shot was followed by a sharp whistling sound and the door closed behind the woman as she left the room, activating the airlock.

“Jelena!”

It was the surprise in the Widow's voice that caused Clint to snap back to action. He grabbed her arm and threw her over his shoulder, down onto the metal floor. He found himself kissing the wall a heartbeat later and groaned at the pain that seemed to be throbbing through his whole body by now. Trying not to drop his gun, he told himself to keep going and moved away just in time to dodge another round of her darts. 

There was an element of mad despair in the way she went at him and Clint swallowed, trying his utmost best to keep up with her reflexes with a growing sense of finality. 

She didn’t seem to be getting tired, so caught up in her frenzy, so deadly and so determined. Clint was almost surprised to find a hole in her defence. She rolled away backwards when his bow hit her chest. He nocked, drew, aimed and the world seemed to suddenly stop.

Following the length of his arrow with his eyes, Clint looked directly into the openings of her still functioning wristband.

Stalemate.

They stared at each other, both panting hard.

“What are you going to do now, Agent Barton?” the Black Widow smiled dangerously and Clint smirked, trying to ignore the ongoing hissing sound coming from one of the machines.

“What happened to your cute Russian accent, _Ivanna_?” he replied and she cocked an eyebrow.

“You think they teach us languages and stop at pronunciation? I'm not surprised you're that bad a spy.”

Clint was about to say something, when his in-ear was switched back on through remote access. Clint swallowed. 

“ _Barton, what the hell are you doing? We're all finished, no thanks to you, so where the fuck are you?_ ”

“I'm... ah, kind of in the middle of something,” he muttered.

“ _Then finish it. Right now._ ”

“Understood.”

Aim still sharp on the Black Widow, Clint began to scan his memories for details of the room. There had to be a way. He’d got this far, he was not going to give up. The airlocked door looked too sturdy for a quick exit, but there might be another way out. If he could find a way to disable her, something...

“ _Clint. You are not moving,_ ” Coulson spoke again and Clint swallowed.

“Well yeah, you see, it's kind of... hard to explain,” he began, wetting his lips.

The ceiling was high. There might be an air vent, or something similar... or perhaps something behind one of the machines, a large enough pipe...

“There's no way out, Agent Barton,” the Black Widow said softly and Clint's expression hardened.

“We'll see about that,” he pressed out, the fingers at the handle of his bow twitching. She laughed.

“Oh, will we? What do you think this hissing sound is?”

Clint blinked, listening. He'd assumed-

“Breathing's going to get hard soon, Clint Barton,” she said, her voice even and steady. “Any last requests?”

“Yeah. Shut up,” he snapped before he could stop himself.

Ignoring the cold sensation that crept down his spine, Clint told himself to keep calm. He had to stay focused. His eyes flickered upward for a split second, finding the circular plate of the ventilation opening beneath the ceiling, and she chuckled.

“Smart boy. Have you looked what's underneath your feet, too?” She shifted her weight from one hip to the other. Clint narrowed his eyes, his fingers impatient around the taut string of his bow. A hollow feeling was spreading in his stomach and he wondered whether it was to blame on whatever gas was still escaping from its container with a sharp hiss.

“I'll give you the facility’s safety talk, perhaps. This reactor room is airlocked,” the Black Widow spoke quietly, every word pronounced carefully. “And if that airlock gets breached, that bomb you're standing on, Barton, will go up.”

She was bluffing. She had to be bluffing.

Clint didn't move a muscle, eyes focused on her face, trying to read her expression. She wasn't bluffing.

Bombs, he thought, why was it always fucking bombs on his missions...

“You're going to die, too,” he said and she curled her lip.

“Inevitably. But you're not going to be the one who kills me. You're going to die with me.”

Clint exhaled slowly, mind and heart racing in distress. He thought the air was beginning to get thicker and he could feel a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

Calm. He had to stay calm. He swallowed, transfixed by the small, circular ends of her wristband, still aimed at him. If she shot, she wasn't going to miss. He also knew she wasn't going to surrender. He could read in her eyes that she had made up her mind. She was not going to give in. 

She’d been abandoned, he thought, a hollow feeling spreading in his gut at the realisation. Her partner had left her behind, left her behind to die in this room. She had nothing to lose but her pride.

“ _Barton, report_.” Coulson's voice was crisp, almost a little hoarse. Clint wondered if Phil had heard what the Widow had said.

Wetting his lips to reply, Clint suddenly met her eyes. He swallowed again.

“What if neither of us dies?” he asked her, not caring about whether Phil could hear it through the still open comm line, and she raised an eyebrow, looking almost amused.

“You think I'm going to fall for that?” Her voice was firm and harsh.

“Phil,” Clint breathed into his comm. “Can you hear me?”

“ _Yes._ ”

“Phil, I need you to help me.”

“ _I'm here, Barton._ ”

Clint took a deep breath and ordered his thoughts before speaking, loudly and clearly.

“I'm standing on a bomb that will go up if I try to leave this room,” he said, voice steady. “I'll need to... Can you talk me through dismantling it?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, while Clint tried his utmost to hold the Black Widow's icy stare without losing his nerve.

“ _I think so,_ ” Coulson replied.

“Okay, good,” Clint nodded, wetting his lips and glancing around the room quickly. “So, what would I be needing?”

“ _Probably something to sever wires with. You have to tell me what kind of bomb we're talking about, though._ ”

“What kind of bomb...” Clint repeated loudly. “Well, I dunno, I guess something like the ones they produce supplies for...”

“ _That's not good enough, Clint._ ”

“Yeah, you see, I have a little trouble taking a closer look,” Clint muttered in reply, eyes still on the Black Widow, whose face was starting to show the same sheen of sweat as his own as the gas kept hissing into the room. Her breath had sped up slightly and she stared at Clint. 

“We can die another day,” he whispered, eyes boring into hers.

Her upper lip gave a twitch.

“It's a modified Stark AC/Deceit,” she burst out faintly and Clint almost cried with relief as he repeated it for Coulson.

“ _Modified how?_ ” was Coulson's next question.

She hesitated and Clint gathered all that was left of his courage.

“I swear I will get you out of here,” he said, lowering his bow and moving his drawing hand away from his body. “I promise. Help me now and we both walk away from this. Natasha.”

He watched, his heart in his throat, as she slowly lowered her arm.

“Ammonium nitrate aluminium mix. They had to reduce the casing size to make it fit,” she spoke and Coulson made a short noise to confirm he had heard her. Clint nodded and motioned her to go on. She looked around the room. “There is a lever that'll give us access to it.”

“ _Put me on speaker, Barton,_ ” Coulson demanded.

 

Five minutes later, Clint could feel the sweat running down his forehead, his breath starting to rattle slightly. He could probably count himself lucky that the gas worked as slowly as it did, but he could hardly keep his fingers from shaking at this point.

Holding a wire in each hand, he tried to focus on Coulson's calm voice that came out of his earpiece, and the Black Widow's nimble, steady fingers as she followed Coulson's instructions with deadly precision.

“ _Now cut the green wire,_ ” - she did - “ _and then the blue. And then pull out the aglet completely. Slowly. If you feel any resistance, stop immediately._ ”

She took a deep breath and pulled. The small piece of metal came away without difficulty. 

“Done,” Clint croaked and he could almost see Coulson close his eyes in relief.

“ _Okay. That should have done it._ ”

The Black Widow put the aglet aside and looked up at Clint, her face glistening with sweat, her red hair sticking to her cheeks and forehead. He nodded encouragingly and they got up, eyeing each other warily.

Putting his earpiece back in, Clint grabbed his bow and looked up at the ceiling. She watched as he sent one of his grappling arrows up and hooked the end of the rope to his belt.

“You coming?” he said, holding out his hand. When she didn’t move, he added, “I'm going to keep my word.”

She nodded curtly as she stepped up to him and put her arms around his shoulders. Activating the automatic reel at his belt, Clint hooked an arm around her waist and they moved up.

The air vent was slightly more high tech than he had hoped. The airlock had sealed it and smashing his fist against it didn't result in anything other than Clint's knuckles hurting.

“Keep me steady,” the Widow said, wrapping her legs around Clint's hips and letting go with her hands.

Watching a little speechlessly how she began to fumble with her suit and pulled a small, round pad out of her bra, Clint gripped her waist a little tighter. She leaned towards the air vent lock and placed the pad over it before pushing them both away from the wall and taking aim with her wristband.

The smoke cleared and Clint stared at the broken cover of the air vent.

“Explosives in your breasts. Of course,” he muttered. “What was I thinking. Is there any part of you that doesn't explode?”

She smirked as they swung back towards the opening.

“Depends on who I'm with,” she replied and pulled herself into the air vent.

“I cannot believe you just made a sex joke,” Clint answered warily as he followed her.

 

She seemed to know where they were going and after a couple of minutes they emerged from the ventilation system into an empty corridor. Through the window Clint could see the square outside, a deserted ruin after he'd blown it to pieces earlier.

He turned to look at the Black Widow, who was standing slightly apart, breathing deeply now that they could breathe again, regarding him with a half-suspicious look. He straightened up and nodded neutrally.

“We walk separate ways?”

She nodded.

“Don’t die before I see you again.”

He smirked in what he hoped came across as a dashing, roguish manner, tipping his imaginary hat.

“Natasha.”

“Clint.”

He left through the window, noting in the corner of his eye how she walked away down the corridor. He moved a hand to his earpiece, checking whether it was still on or whether Coulson had dropped the connection in the meantime.

“I'm on my way out.”

“ _Know that this will be in your report, Barton. What you did was madness. Not to mentioned you disobeyed orders._ ”

“Guess that would be the fault of that pair you told me to grow, Coulson,” Clint replied, making his way across the square.

He was already up on the roof of the wall again when a sharp pain in his arm threw him off balance and caused him to fall. Clutching the spot where the bullet had entered his muscles, Clint yelped and cursed, rolling over to face the direction from which the shot had come. He drew his gun.

“I thought you'd already said goodbye,” he called out to the woman named Jelena, whose blond hair was moving slightly in the night breeze as she approached, her own gun aimed at... ah, his head.

Biting his lip in pain, Clint tried to shift to a more upwards position. She had effectively disabled his right arm and his aim with his left wasn't quite as foolproof. He could still hit her between the eyes, but not blindly. Not while he was busy dodging her shot.

“It is hardly my fault, Agent Barton, that you refuse to go away.” She cocked her head. “Maybe I should have taken you out in the forest. It would have saved us so much trouble.”

“Yeah, maybe you should have.”

“Don't worry,” she smiled. “I shall correct it presently.”

A shot echoed and Jelena's gun was blasted from her hand. Dodging the small dart that whooshed past her neck, she grimaced and turned to see the Black Widow jump onto the roof, arm outstretched, cold murder on her face.

“Look who it is,” Jelena snarled. “Little traitor!”

“You're not the one who got betrayed tonight,” Natasha hissed as she met Jelena's blow with her own.

Scrambling to his feet, Clint could hear Coulson's voice in his ear.

“ _Barton, get the hell off that roof._ ”

“Yes, sir,” he replied, forcing himself to stand up straight and move, taking a couple of steps back. He had half turned to leave when he looked over his shoulder to see the Black Widow and the blond woman at each other's throats. He saw the grim determination on Natasha's face as she moved, but also noticed how she protected her side where his arrow had got her earlier. 

“ _Barton, if I have to repeat myself one. More. Time._ ”

Jelena came crashing down onto the roof, tiles cracking underneath her, crying out in pain, but rolling out of the way before the Widow's darts hit her. 

Clint couldn't be sure whether Natasha had seen the flashing of metal as Jelena drew the small pistol out of her sleeve.

But he had seen it.

For the first time since he had entered Russia, probably, he pulled the trigger first and there was nothing and nobody to mess with his aim.

Natasha whirled around in surprise when she saw the blood pouring from Jelena's throat and Clint wondered whether she was going to rip his head off because he had interfered. She took a step towards him and he saw her flinch, her hand moving to her side and coming away bloody. Her strength was beginning to fail her, Clint noticed. Even he could have taken her out at this point, had his shoulder been better.

“We have to get out,” he said. “This place is going to blow up.”

Her face was expressionless for a moment. Then she took another step towards him.

“ _Barton,_ ” Coulson's voice could be heard again. “ _Fury gave orders to press the red button in T minus ten minutes. You have one minute to get out of there or you can walk the way home._ ”

“I'm on my way,” Clint replied, running across the tiled roof, Natasha always in the corner of his eye. “I'll swing us out.”

Coulson paused. Then Fury's voice could be heard.

“ _You have ten seconds, Barton, or you will serve as SHIELD's Christmas turkey._ ”

Clint suppressed a curse as he grabbed for his bow and pulled an arrow from his quiver, his shoulder stiff with pain. He tried not to think of how impossible it was to make it in time, not with his shoulder shot and not with Natasha by his side.

“ _Director Fury, Barton's taken a shot to his shoulder and knee. We're going to need a slightly bigger time frame,_ ” Coulson spoke and Clint thought he could hear Fury roll his eye.

“ _Thirty seconds. They better be good wounds._ ”

Reaching the end of the roof, Clint aimed for one of the trees, grappling arrow drawn. He felt like he was going to go blind with the white pain in his shoulder as he released.

“I didn't take a shot to the knee,” he muttered to Coulson on their private channel while he hooked the metal rope to his belt.

“ _Not yet,_ ” Coulson replied and Clint wrapped his arms around Natasha.

“This'll be a tough one,” he muttered and she squeezed his good shoulder in reply.

 

Coulson was the last person Clint had expected to see when he and Natasha ran towards the SHIELD helicopter, the engines of which were already roaring.

Coulson's fist in his jaw when he reached the helicopter, however, was... not all that surprising, considering the circumstances.

Tripping over backwards, he hit the ground hard and groaned out in pain. Lying on the floor he looked up to see Natasha with her gun aimed at Coulson's head, seemingly indifferent to the five, ten SHIELD agents surrounding her, guns raised.

Coulson looked entirely unaffected. He merely held her gaze calmly.

“Ah, Natasha...” Clint groaned, flexing his jaw and wincing. “It's okay, I guess I deserved that... Don't shoot!” he looked around at the SHIELD agents. “Don’t shoot! Her boobs, they explode.”

A smirk tugged at Coulson's lips and with a small jerk of his head he ordered his agents to stand down. When everybody lowered their guns, Natasha let hers drop to the ground, hands moving away from her body in surrender. She glanced down at Clint defensively when someone moved to handcuff her wrists behind her back and he swallowed, nodding reassuringly.

“Get the first aid kit and patch them up.” Coulson looked from Natasha down to Clint and took a step towards him, offering him a hand and pulling him to his feet. “We'll talk about that shot to the knee,” he threatened and Clint grinned a little goofily before looking at Natasha.

“That's Coulson,” he said, slightly superfluously.

***

Staring up at the white ceiling Clint wondered how long he could possibly stay in this hospital bed before the beeping of the machines drove him insane. He made a mental note to just die next time.

Hoping it was the nurse to tell him to go home, he turned his head when the door opened, slightly taken aback when he saw Natasha, wearing a black and grey jumpsuit with the SHIELD logo on the chest. She looked oddly... soft without the sharp lines of her combat suit, without weapons or blood covering every inch of her body.

“Hey,” he said in surprise and she smiled faintly, closing the door behind her and taking a seat by his bed. Running a hand through his hair, Clint tried to sit up, ignoring the numb throb in his shoulder.

“You're awake,” she stated and he grimaced, gesturing at all the machinery around him.

“Or maybe I'm really dead,” he replied, sighing heavily, and she pursed her lips in amusement. He nodded at her jumpsuit. “So, uhm... how do I interpret this?”

Running a hand across the sheets, fingers toying with one of the tubes that connected Clint to the machines, she shook her head, as if she wasn’t entirely sure what to say.

“They're keeping me around for now,” she replied, shrugging. “Whatever that means. I sat through an interrogation yesterday and told them... a couple of things. ” She avoided his eyes. “I actually requested you to be there, but you were still snoring, so...”

“Yeah, sorry.” Clint grimaced apologetically. “Although I can't imagine they'd be very happy if I started messing up interrogations, too. I'm... not particularly popular with the authorities, you see...” He coughed and they grinned at each other. “Who interrogated you?”

“Coulson and Hill.”

“Ugh,” Clint blurted out, eyeing her. “My heartfelt sympathies.”

“It wasn't all bad.”

“Well, I imagine Coulson would be sort of decent, but Hill can be a fucking monster. I know, I take combat lessons from her...” Clint wrinkled his nose and Natasha raised an eyebrow.

“I did get the impression you’re not her favourite agent,” she answered, her voice dry. “But she seems to think you did well enough.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that, since all she ever does in my presence is jump down my throat and threaten to rip my balls off...” Clint grumbled. “Fury himself is easier to satisfy than that hag...”

Natasha side-eyed him, then shrugged.

“She was okay.” She paused for a moment, then looked at Clint. “Maria Hill is the only woman of her rank currently employed by SHIELD. I guess she had to grow a pair of fangs on the way.”

“Did your research, did you?”

“I did, as a matter of fact,” Natasha retorted. “I went up against her a while back and believe it or not, she’s a tough nut to crack. You don’t get where she is by playing nice. Trust me, I know.”

“Touché,” Clint muttered, a bit surprised. She was probably the only person apart from Coulson who’d ever defended Maria Hill to him. Not even Bobbi or Ferrante, who were more or less Hill’s right and left hand, had ever bothered to shut him up, since they usually had one bone or the other to pick with Maria themselves. He was slightly embarrassed at the fact that he found it strangely appealing about Natasha that she, of all people, wouldn’t let him get away with it.

From the corner of his eye, he regarded her quietly for a moment. Half hidden by her hair, there was a bruise on the side of her neck and he wondered whether it was Jelena’s or his own signature. For a moment he wanted to ask whether she’d been to medical, but the cut above her eye that disappeared into her hairline looked like it had been stitched, so he assumed she’d seen a doctor. Coulson would have made sure of it. 

Other than that she looked more relaxed than he had ever seen her, even when she'd been sleeping next to him as Ivanna. Clint decided blond hadn’t really been her colour. 

He swallowed, then cleared his throat.

“Hey, listen...”

She looked up at him.

“Hm?”

“Tell me something, yeah? Why didn't you kill me?” he asked, eyeing her carefully. She looked taken aback.

“Are you telling me I should have?”

“No, I mean you _could_ have. More than once. But you never did. Why?”

She contemplated him for a moment, then sighed and looked out of the window. Shaking her head, she focused back on him, a small smile tugging at her lips as she wet them.

“I don't know.” Her fingers were playing with one of the thin tubes again. “I guess I just... liked you. I mean, you were pretty transparent and more than a little hilarious...”

Clint tried not to look offended and she laughed, resting her hand on his.

“You’re a good guy,” she added quietly. “And a decent opponent, actually. It was more fun to... keep playing.”

Clint frowned, slightly confused on whether he should feel proud or cheap. He sniffed, glancing down at her hand on his own. Narrowing his eyes he looked at her.

“So, uhm... when you... when we, _you know_. Was that part of your plan? Your mission? All along?”

A dirty smirk appeared on Natasha's face and her fingers twitched on his.

“No.” Her thumb was tracing along his little finger. “That bit was just the fun part of the game.”

Clint was blushing before he could help it and they burst out laughing.

“I’m just going to hope that that night wasn’t what made me so hilarious...” he cringed and Natasha, still laughing, shook her head, blushing slightly herself.

“No,” she replied, sobering up a little and watching as he turned his hand to wrap two fingers around hers. When she glanced up, she caught his gaze. Clint cleared his throat.

“So, uhm...” he began, running his free hand through his hair. “In case I’m not being hilariously transparent again-”

“You are,” she cut him off dryly and Clint deflated a little.

“Well, this isn’t Russia and there’s no vodka in the nightstand, so...” he replied, clasping her hand as if she was trying to get away, which she wasn’t. “Once I’m out of here? Drinks? My treat.” 

Natasha took a deep breath and studied him for a second, a curious look on her face. 

“Maybe,” she replied, a grin on her lips. 

“Maybe? What does that-” Clint began, but a knock on the door interrupted him. 

Coulson stuck his head in.

“Barton,” he greeted Clint. “I hear you're all better.”

“Oh, no,” Clint groaned when he saw the clipboard under Coulson's arm. “Come on, I’m in hospital!”

“Oh, yes,” Coulson replied smugly, drawing another chair close. 

“But I was just about to-”

“Miss Romanoff,” Coulson nodded at Natasha, who had pulled her hand free of Clint’s grasp. “Do feel free to stick around, in case he makes an attempt at escaping...” He flipped over a page on his clipboard and pulled a pen out of breast pocket. Placing a recording device on top of the bed, he smiled sweetly at Clint.

“And now, Agent Barton, let's start working on the first report in the history of your SHIELD employment that will be handed in perfectly on time...”

 

An hour and a half later, Clint was ready to offer Natasha anything at all to be knocked back to unconsciousness. Racking his brain over meticulous details Coulson insisted on, he retold every last minute of his mission in Russia, down to his fighting moves, stubbornly ignoring Natasha when she threw in “Oh, so that's what it was supposed to be”. 

When he had finally finished, the memory had caused all his bruises to start aching again and he felt worse than he had before he had reached medical.

“Congratulations,” Coulson grinned when he shut down the recording device and put away his clipboard. “You are one brave little trooper.” Flexing his shoulders, he took a deep breath, then added, “So... your place or mine, then, Barton?”

Clint glared at him.

“What, are you saying I can go?”

“Of course,” Coulson replied. “You had permission to leave as soon as you woke up; they just keep you out cold so you don’t drive the nurses mad. You should stay in company for the next twelve hours and avoid alcoholic beverages and physical exertion,” he smirked when he saw disappointment flicker across Clint’s face, “but you're free as a bird. No pun intended.”

“I just spent two hours trapped in this bed, held against my will...” Clint began and Phil appeared genuinely amused.

“Strategic use of information distribution is a gift you have yet to learn to utilise.”

Natasha chuckled, then watched with a grin how Clint glared at Coulson, who set about disconnecting him from the machines around his bed. Flipping two switches and pulling plugs when Coulson asked her to, she shook her head at Clint’s pleading face that turned into a pout.

“Fine. Your place,” Clint eventually huffed, rubbing the back of his hand and getting out of bed. “You have the bigger kitchen. And the larger sofa.”

“And here I thought your choice was going to be based on the fact that your apartment is in Boston and we are currently in New York City...” Phil muttered while Clint got dressed, trying to maintain some kind of dignity as he shed his hospital nightgown.

“I’ve arranged for your gear to be brought back to your on-site quarters,” Coulson said, to which Clint replied with an affirmative grunt. “And one of the nurses will give you some meds to take home on your way out. I’m going to take your report back to my office before we leave...”

Buttoning up his pants, Clint turned to look at Coulson, a frown on his face.

“Hey, Phil,” he called and Coulson looked at him, eyebrow raised in question. “I was just wondering. What were you doing in Vyborg anyway? I thought you were on the helicarrier. How'd you even get there?”

“I hijacked the helicarrier,” Coulson replied calmly, looking as if his answer should be obvious. “I always get my agents out, Barton.”

He threw Clint's jacket at him and grabbed his things. When Clint gave him the thumbs up, Phil turned towards Natasha, who still sat on her chair, watching quietly.

“Miss Romanoff?” Phil asked and she straightened up, her face impassive. 

“Agent Coulson?”

Throwing a quick glance at Clint, Phil pursed his lips. He gestured at the door invitingly and shrugged lightly.

“Would you care to join us? I can't promise it will be very relaxing to babysit a man in his late twenties, but there'll be food and bad television and he usually falls asleep after a couple of hours.”

“Hey, I'm in my best years!” Clint protested and Natasha's lips twitched. Contemplating them both for a moment, she slowly got up and nodded. 

“I would love to,” she replied dryly and Coulson chuckled as he opened the door and stepped back to let her through first. Clint, who was tying the laces of his shoe, stumbled after her, glaring at Phil. 

“And you're one to talk. I can practically watch your hairline receding from where I'm standing.”

“I'll remind you that you're only a couple of years away from being in your mid-thirties yourself,” Phil replied as he closed the door behind them. Clint snorted, accepting a small box of pills and a piece of paper with instructions from the nurse, who seemed to be glad to get rid of him judging by the force with which she shoved him towards the exit.

“Maybe, but you're not in your mid-thirties, Phil, and we both know it,” Clint said smugly as they walked along the corridor outside the SHIELD medical ward.

“My age is classified, Barton.”

“I can only hope the same thing'll apply to me once I'm pushing forty...” Clint teased and Phil pretended to ignore him as he quickly dropped into his office to deposit the recording device and the clipboard, while Clint and Natasha waited for him outside.

**Author's Note:**

> All the (very basic) Russian in this text is secondhand, since I don't speak the language myself. I have also never been to Lappeenranta or Vyborg, or anywhere in between. 
> 
> I still don't know a thing about bombs. 
> 
> My thanks and love go to [nerakrose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nerakrose) and [mrs_jack_turner](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_jack_turner/pseuds/mrs_jack_turner) for an unbelievable amount of support, feedback, constructive criticism and encouragement. <3


End file.
